


The Things We Owe

by missmungoe



Series: At the Turn of the Tide [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Ben's infamous ledgers make an appearance, F/M, Marriage, Parenthood, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: Names are tricky things; they're not just strings of syllables, devoid of life and meaning. Sometimes they belong to memories, to people and the legacies they've left, and a legacy can be a burden as easily as an honour.Of course, a whole crew of eager, cheerfully insufferable uncles pitching their suggestions to the pot doesn't make choosing any easier.





	The Things We Owe

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr asked what Shanks and Makino would have named their son if Ace had lived, and even if baby Ace remains an integral part of my story for them, I tinkered a bit with the idea. Not that I can ever help myself when it comes to writing them stupidly married and expecting; I'm always looking for an excuse.

The pile was dropped onto the table without warning, and she glanced up from her inventory list to find Shanks standing there, expression amused but trying very hard not to be.

“Could you believe they all bet on their own name?” he asked. Makino had the thought that he would have crossed his arms, had he been able to. “Ben included, that presumptuous old bag. _As if_.”

It took a moment for her to draw the connection, before her eyes rounded—realisation finding her, spurred by a sudden delight as she dropped her gaze to the pile of well-thumbed notebooks. “You found Ben’s ledgers!”

Putting down her pen, she reached for the nearest, the cover blue and faded and the spine creased. It looked old, and leafing through it, her brows inched upwards, finding bets dating back a decade, unmistakably penned in Ben’s firm, meticulous hand.

“Oh yeah,” Shanks said. “That’s from when we first met. You remember that time you came running down in your nightdress? Ben made a fortune off that pool.”

She glanced up from the page, one brow arched with delicate accusation. “You told me you’d bet I would come,” she said, holding up the notebook, her smile a touch gleeful. “But I don’t see your name here, Captain ‘I Am the Living, Breathing Embodiment of Confidence’.”

He made to grab the notebook, but she evaded with surprising grace, given the spectacular size of her stomach and the fact that she was sitting, keeping it out of his reach. In retaliation, Shanks stuck his tongue out, but allowed her to take it, and reached instead for one of the nearby chairs.

“Which is the most recent?” Makino asked, looking through the pile. Shanks pushed a notebook towards her, this one of supple brown leather, and not as faded as the others. Drawing his hand back, he skirted his fingers over the curve of her stomach; the baby kicked, and she watched his smile lifting, easily distracted and ever-delighted.

“It’s almost exclusively male names,” Makino said, flipping through the pages, the paper crisp and the ink fresh, and dates lining the separate entries, mapping a staggeringly organised operation. She was grudgingly impressed. “What if it’s a girl?”

Expression dry, Shanks flipped a page. “They’re prepared,” he said, pointing, and Makino let slip a soft snort of surprise, gaze skimming over the suggestions.

“Is that supposed to be the feminine version of Yasopp?”

“According to Yasopp,” Shanks said. “But it’ll be over my dead body.” Then, frowning down at the page, “Also,” he said, leafing through the notebook, a pout forming. “How come no one’s bet on  _my_  name?”

“You want to name our child after yourself?” Makino asked, gently dubious.

“A lot of people name their progeny after themselves,” Shanks pointed out. “And it’s a good name. Better than  _Yasopp_ , anyhow.”

“I’m not contesting that,” Makino said, patiently. “But given your genes, they’re already set to inherit a fair share of you. Don’t you think this would be overkill?”

He gave her a long look, expression bemused. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she answered breezily, eyes dancing with a smile. Shanks’ brows furrowed.

“You’re referring to the hair, aren’t you.”

“I’m really not.”

“Oh yes you are. Your face gives you away, you know—I could spot a lie on it from a mile away.”

“That’s not the only thing that can be spotted from a mile away,” Makino quipped softly, then pressed her lips together to hide her smile at the expression that contorted his features—that usually-quick mouth agape, as though he couldn’t decide if he was hurt or delighted.

“ _You_ ,” Shanks told her, pointing the notebook at her, although he didn’t really succeed in maintaining a convincing show of hurt, a fond mutter slipping under his breath with a laugh. “Cheeky girl. I’d feel attacked if I wasn’t so proud. I’m also a little turned on—you know this is my favourite kind of foreplay.”

“I’m familiar with it,” she replied dryly, mouth pursed at the dirty grin he shot her, before it slanted into a softer smile, and she tilted her head, considering him where he sat, the pile of notebooks between them. “Are you really upset no one suggested your name?”

Shanks shook his head, smile a little too quick, but not dishonest. “Nah. I just like to exaggerate my grievances. I don’t know if my name is worth passing on.”

Her smile slipped. “Shanks.”

He shrugged, but he wasn’t looking at her. “If we’re naming him—or her—after someone, I’d like it to be a better legacy than mine. Someone worth remembering.”

There was a protest ready on her tongue, surprisingly sharp, but he continued before she could voice it, “I know it’s tradition to honour a parent. I’d suggest my old man, but he wasn’t anything to write home about. Barely wrote home as it was, and then he just dropped off the map—told my mother he wasn’t coming back, and then never did. I’ll give him this; he was an honest bastard.” He frowned at the notebook, the pages brimming with names, a near-palpable eagerness in the sheer amount that reflected the hearts of the crew who’d suggested them. His expression was shadowed with something old and rarely touched. “I don’t want to be that kind of father,” he said. “The kind that opts out.”

He glanced towards the window, and the sea beyond the glass. The sun was dripping into the horizon, painting the waterline with the promise of gold. It was the kind of sight that made sailors restless and left their wives jealous, Makino knew; the bared horizon begging to be reached, a coy lover that stole laden glances and beckoned a chase that had no end, but he’d never been the kind of man to rush anywhere, or to covet the things he didn’t have; to reach the unreachable. Makino wondered idly if the sea wasn’t the jealous one, second fiddle that she’d become.

Curiously emboldened by the thought—she wasn’t possessive by nature, but then she’d never had anything worth having as much as him—“You always come back,” she told him, reaching for his hand to lace their fingers together, and drawing his attention back. It didn’t take much, his eyes releasing the horizon without struggle to seek hers; to settle there.

“You’ve never given me reason to doubt that,” Makino said, gripping his hand in hers, the other cupped over the curve of her stomach. “And it will be the same for him—or her,” she added with a small smile.

Shanks looked at their hands, her small fingers wound through his, before she saw him shift his gaze to her stomach, straining under her apron. The baby was quiet, like the heart that guarded it; not a ripple of doubt in the steady sea within her.

He lifted his shoulders then, as though shrugging off an old burden. This time, his smile sat easy on his mouth. “I lament my upbringing, but it could have been worse. A lot of kids don’t even have one parent, but between Rayleigh and Captain Roger, I was pretty well off.”

“This being the captain who taught you how to chug a pint at fourteen, and the first mate who strung you up by your ankles when you threw up all over the deck afterwards?” Makino asked.

Shanks grinned. “Yeah. Good times.” His eyes twinkled. “Captain Roger taught me more than just to drink, you know—who do you think I got my amazing repertoire of roguish skills from?”

“You mean like how to flirt your way out of a bar tab?”

“ _And_ out of a pair of handcuffs,” Shanks added, with a wink. “Was more relevant back when I had two hands to cuff together, alas. And I can tell by that adorably doubtful expression that you’re not convinced, but let me just say that I never tried flirting my way out of my tab here, so you don’t know how effective it is.” He gave her a look. “I always paid my dues with you, and then some.” As he said the last bit, he flicked his eyes to her pregnant stomach, and raised his brows meaningfully.

“I don’t know if I should feel insulted that you didn’t even try,” Makino countered, and expected him to retort with something clever, but was surprised when he just looked at her.

“I only used that skill in taverns I wasn’t planning on coming back to,” Shanks said without missing a beat, and with such an effortless honesty she couldn’t summon her voice for a quick comeback.

The smile it left on his face told her he knew perfectly well what effect the remark had had on her, but it wasn’t his usual glibness that made it reach all the way to the corners of his eyes.

“No one could flirt their way out of trouble like Captain Roger, though. But entirely questionable role model aside, he was a good man,” Shanks said. His gaze was on their hands, his eyes seas away. “Didn’t always make the right choices, but I don’t know where I would have ended up if he hadn’t let me stay. I was thirteen, and barely that. A kid that young had nothing to do in a crew like his, but I had nowhere else to go. He could have dropped me off at the nearest port when he found out, but he let me stay. Made me scrub the deck until I could do it in my sleep, but he also taught me to chart stars, and to navigate—how to listen to the sea instead of trying to command it.” He paused, and she wondered if he was thinking about a specific memory. Most likely, by the fond smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“He was a damn good sailor, and the best captain I’ve ever known,” Shanks said then, quietly. “Always put the crew before himself.”

He didn’t mention the execution, even as it lurked behind the words; an old ghost, but it didn’t haunt the memory, or the mind that kept it. Instead it had made itself comfortable, having settled in steady shoulders that had carried the same burden of command for over two decades; a legacy that was remembered, not out of necessity or guilt but out of fondness, and a deep-rooted respect that outlasted even death.

It had shaped him more than he realised. He’d playfully wave off the notion that he was anything to aspire to, but the kind of loyalty her husband inspired couldn’t be bought, or even commanded. And the occasional boisterous claim of staggering confidence aside, Makino wondered sometimes if he knew just how adored he was—that for all his breezy quips about selfishness being a pirate’s prerogative, there was nothing selfish about the way he captained his crew.

“Hey,” she said then, making his eyes lift back to hers. Releasing his fingers, she nudged the notebook towards him, pointing to the bottom of the page, and the name that sat there, neatly scrawled. An anonymous suggestion, made some months ago. “Speaking of.”

Accepting the notebook, she watched as Shanks’ brows quirked with surprise. “Roger?” he asked, his smile a little startled, before looking up to meet her eyes again. “I wonder who suggested it—that’s one hell of a legacy to live up to.”

Lacing her fingers over her stomach, Makino smiled. “Is it a bad one?”

He looked at her, his brows furrowed a bit, and she tried to keep her smile light, but she’d never been able to pull off a convincingly innocent look, especially when he looked at her like  _that_ —with that curiously intense scrutiny that left no room for secrets, and her stomach a-flutter.

And she didn’t doubt that he’d figured it out, but he didn’t call her out on it, or ask her why. Instead, “No,” Shanks murmured, dropping his eyes back to the name. He thumbed the corner of the page, his smile soft. “No, it’s not.”

The silence that followed was significant, coming to settle deep in his eyes; the same realisation that she’d had a long time ago, as the date in the ledger suggested, but then some truths were always easier to see from outside, not from within, although she could tell he saw it now, sifting through old memories, all of them worth remembering. The boy without a home or a family to his name bragging his way onto a pirate ship, and the captain who’d become both; who’d seen right through his extravagant deception and cheek, but who’d only grinned and said,  _sure, why not?_

Ben’s ledger lay open, the last of the sunlight gathering on the page, and the name that sat scrawled near the bottom. And watching Shanks, she found his earlier remark in his eyes now, although without the same weight of self-deprecating regret.

_I know it’s tradition to honour a parent._

Then, throwing his head back with a laugh that she felt in her whole body, and that was followed by a small, almost startled kick against her hipbone, Shanks declared, fearfully marvelling but still unabashedly pleased—

“Oh, Garp would _kill_ me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere across the seas, Garp has the uncanny sense that something terrible is afoot.


End file.
